Stanley Pines hadn’t really planned on kids, but then, they managed to find him anyway.
A little Father’s Day tribute (a day late, whoops) to not just a great
dad uncle, but the greatest uncle!
Soon I’ll be sixty years old, will I think the world is cold
Or will I have a lot of children who can warm me?
-Lukas Graham, Seven Years
Stan Pines always figured he would have kids someday. Sometime after his “ew, girls are icky” phase and the following “okay, girls ain’t so bad,” yet before the “well shit, you know what, guys are A-ok in my book, too.”
Having kids seemed the thing to do when you grew up. What usually happened, Filbrick would grumble, whether you planned for them or not.
Stan didn’t necessarily believe that to be the case; regardless, eventually having a rugrat or two was what he wanted, expectations be damned. Babysitting his nephew had given him an appreciative stance on kids. Just the way a baby looked at you, like you were sun and lit up the whole world with your presence alone, that was staggering to Stan, unlike anything he had ever felt.
Not wanting kids was fine, too, as Stan pointed out when Ford expressed his disinterest in spawning any of his own. As always, the brothers were more different than alike, identical or no. Stan pondered if that was the way it went with all siblings.
(“Fatherhood would simply be a major distraction to my research. In moderation, children can be fun company, of course; but they’re also messy, loud, disruptive, and desire a lot of attention.”
“Geez, Sixer, sound like yer describin’ me,” Stan snorted.
“Exactly my point.”
Stan scoffed, socking his smirking brother in the arm. “Shuddup, nerd. Keep talkin’ like that and Uncle Ford won’t be invited to my mansion for Thanksgiving.”